Lavender Isles of Greece

he high, dramatic coast near Marmaris, Turkey, rose off the twin sterns of Scud, our 44-foot St. Francis catamaran, as dolphins gamboled between our bows. As much as we loved Turkey, it was time to head west, trading in spicy curries, minarets, and bangles for Greek baklava, white chapels, and blue domes. My husband, Peter, and I planned to explore the Aegean and Ionian seas, the waters bordering the lands where the roots of the culture of the Western world first flourished and the settings for the adventures of Odysseus. We’d trek among ruins and island-hop between the same ports to which traders sailed before us on old sea routes between Asia Minor and Greece.

“No clouds. Go today!” urged an experienced fisherman in turkey. Instinctively, he knew that heavy cloud cover signaled the arrival within 24 hours of a meltemi – the seasonal wind of the eastern Mediterranean that often brings gales. Good advice from friendly fishermen was to help us more than once during our cruise: Without it, later, we would’ve nearly lost our boat in the southern Aegean.

It was an easy night passage, but Poseidon sounded his conch-shell trumpet at midmorning, sending in howling winds with a frothy sea, so we took refuge in the lee of mountainous Kos and anchored off the village of Kefalos. Even when a meltemi isn’t blowing, short-term gales can fly down mountaintops with furious gusts. SO, while languishing at a taverna, we kept a sharp eye out for Scud, which was anchored off the town marina. If need be, we could berth side to along the wall, using the hefty chains and tires provided. Normally, for marinas in Greece, it’s first come, first served, but we never heard of anyone ever being turned away. If room was scarce, boats rafted up alongside one another.

Before hitting the sack, we took in the view over morning coffee. From Scud we could see the ruins of Kefalos’ former trading history, when the village was a link in the trading posts between Asia Minor and Greece. Humankind’s first maritime civilization developed around this Bronze Age trade. Later, after we’d rested and made our way ashore, we heard mandolin melodies wafting from the tavernas. While threading our way through these isles, we found ourselves constantly shifting between the rich past and the delightful present.

Next morning, Poseidon had reigned in his galloping white horses with clear skies, so we set out once again for Paros, but that landfall was to be postponed. The butterfly-shaped island of Astipalaia beckoned to us as we sailed along its northeastern shore. Soon, we found ourselves anchored in the empty, nearly landlocked cove of Vathi. That night, we were lulled to sleep by bleating goats corralled at a nearby farmhouse.

To outwit the meltemi, we departed at sunrise for the 60-nautical-mile run to Paros and Naxos, twin mountainous islands joined by a protected bay. On our approach, we grew absorbed with the dramatic view of a whitewashed village set against the backdrop of sloping olive groves and vineyards. Seduced by the view and the sweet smell of lavender riding the sea breeze, we lost all our senses and nearly ran Scud onto the rock-studded Kalypso reef.

With winds abaft the beam, Scud flew to Poros, a popular yachting center located off the Peloponnesus, the peninsula of mainland Greece. On passage, we enjoyed the open sea and the vault of stars splashed overhead.

At Ormos Vidhi bay, we tied our dinghy to the Poros quay and searched for the harbormaster. Wandering through a labyrinth of cobbled alleyways shaded by overhead porticos adorned in flowering creeper, we passed women in black gowns knitting lace in doorways. In an instant, we became hopelessly lost.

“Go left – no, right,” I said. Our noses led us up an outside staircase into an old building, where we found the harbormaster crunching baklava and sipping espresso with large sailor’s hands. After formalities, we stopped along the busy quay for souvlakia, a shish kebab of grilled meat, to see if we’d recognize old friends made in earlier ports.

We headed into the hills for a view of the harbor, passing rows of olive tress with gnarly trunks and stone walls draped in scarlet hibiscus. We plodded doggedly up a great hill, resting at the top beneath an arbor of silvery olive groves to picnic on bread, olives, and feta and spy Poros below. The sweet smell of lavender hung in the air. Ah, Greece in the spring time! While retracing our steps, I stopped to admire a vegetable garden outside a farmhouse. Before I know it the gardener had stuffed my basket to overflowing with foot-long zucchinis, giant tomatoes, and fat cucumbers. He then offered me a spring of lavender for my hair.

Peter and I boarded a fast ferry in the blackness before dawn for the short buzz to Piraeus, the port for Athens; the city is named after Athena, the city’s virgin patron and the goddess of civilization and wisdom. At sea, dramatic pink hues tinted passing villages, their windowpanes flashing golden from a rising sun.

As we departed Marmaris, Scud made a steady 10 knots beneath moderate northeasterlies. Sunlight glinted off the small island of Simi, 25 nautical miles ahead. Surrounded by the bluest of all seas, we enjoyed a perfect postcard of water and sky. Islands by the score are scattered across the Aegean and Ionian seas, tossed like pebbles from the pouch of a giant. “When the gods warred, boulders fell into the sea when they battled with stones. That’s the Greek islands!” a student told me one day at a coffee vendor. One could easily make passage among them all summer, but all summer we did not have. The seasonal clock was ticking on our planned Atlantic Ocean crossing in December, which would complete our circumnavigation. After studying cruising guides and seeking advice from cruisers in Turkey, we chose islands that offered the best anchorages – we prefer the solitude of the hook to busy marinas – and that wouldn’t require us to leave a truckload of Euros in our wake.

We rounded the northeast coast of Simi, drifting by secret coves hidden in rocky escarpments. Inside a narrow channel, the soft rhythm of tinkling goat bells wafted into the cockpit, creating a magical spell too delightful for speech. I eyed Peter, and together we smiled. It was an augury of great things to come: Poseidon was on our side! By sundown, our Bugel anchor was set in snug Pethi Bay, located on the backside of the village of Simi; that’s where most cruisers prefer to tie up, along the town quay.

We made our way the next morning across the hilly countryside to find customs, following a lane fringed in wild lavender. A sign for a shortcut to Simi pointed us up a vertical staircase of stone; at the top, we saw below us colorful houses stacker tier upon tier, like a wedding cake, up the steep slopes of a fjord.

After formalities, we stopped for drippy baklava at a quayside café festooned in natural sponges and upside-down bouquets of lavender that were suspended from rafters. Since ancient times, Simi has been a center for sponge fishing; wooden boats were built here. In the Iliad, Homer tells us that Simi sent three ships to Troy to rescue Agamemnon.

We slipped away one late afternoon in light winds bound for Paros. At night, we passed fishermen sing lights as lures and were careful to avoid their purse nets. Gourmets prize their catch of red Aegean mullet, known as barbounia. The working boats looked like Christmas trees, and we gave them a wide berth. Bella, our Belgian barge dog, seized every flying fish that flopped into the cockpit. By twilight, there were enough to fry up scrambled eggs with her catch-of-the-day for a real sailor’s breakfast.

At the lighthouse on the summit of the peak on Naxos, twirling ribbons of white streaked the rocky landscape. This is Parian marble, once sought after by ancient temple architects for its translucence and fine grain. From this peak, we scanned the wide-open Aegean below: Sentries from these heights could spy invading armadas and privateers poised to plunder riches from Far East traders. Our ruminations were caught short when Bella’s panicked yelps resonated across the marbled escarpment. Fast on her heels charged a cantankerous billy goat with scary-looking horns.

For a swing around Paros, we took the local bus, stopping for morning tea and biscuits at a side walk taverna. From our table, we watched a s a Greek Orthodox priest, or pappas, resplendent in flowing black robes, a tall black hat, and a full beard, chatted with friends in the street. A girl nearby reached down to pet a white kitten. When she caught my smile, I dug into my slim stockpile of Greek words to offer “Kalimera”, or “Good morning”. She squealed with laughter.

Our waiter, laughing, explained. “You just greeted her with the word for squid – kalamari ”.

Only the saving grace of a fisherman, who shouted and gesticulated wildly from this cockpit, saved us from a near loss. Nearby, a blue-and-white chapel stood sentinel on an islet, a shrine testifying to the gratitude of fishermen for divine protection from the same perils that we’d just dodged. We saw these shrines all over Greece. Their gleaming whitewashed walls deflected the sun’s rays to keep the interiors cool, and with the blue domes, the colors repeated those of the Greek flag.

“After 100,000 bluewater miles, you’d think we’d know better!” I cried to Peter, once we’d anchored at Parthenos Point.

“Babe, it happens to all experienced sailors – eventually,’ he said. Then he grabbed me in a bear hug and we toppled over together into the water. “Attitude-adjustment time!” he said, laughing. Though the local marina is located on the northwest side of Paros, we were delighted with our secret, romantic spot.

To stretch our legs with Bella, we took the goat trail to the lighthouse on Naxos. In the countryside, grapes dangled from farmhouse trellises, and beneath the shade of fig trees rested grape presses for wine making. Islanders produce their own family wine, but much of the Aegean’s grape harvest goes to commercial wineries. Aegean vintages of wine, the drink of kings, are world renowned.

In Piraeus, large vessels choked the harbor; the country’s merchant ship fleet is one of the largest in the world. This harbor dates back thousand years, when it formed a vital trading center and sheltered vast naval fleets.

After navigating our way through pounding feet, rushing wheels, and intricate subway schedules, we began our climb toward the Acropolis, the fortified citadel and state sanctuary that’s set atop a 500-foot limestone cliff and dominates Athens. Squinting up at marbled columns on our ascent, we wound through an archeological student-village, accompanied by the crescendo of classical melodies radiating from a professor’s open doorway.

At the top of the hill, we ran our hands over the ancient columns and thick walls of the Parthenon, the Temple of Athena, and the Erechtheum, a temple dedicated to a Greek hero or king. We grew absorbed with our ancient past, a Western heritage that dates to the Athens of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle and the indelible marks that Greek culture has left on Western thought.

As Scud coasted by Andreas Point at Ithaca, a blue-and-white chapel stood sentinel next to the flashing beacon that had guided us during the moonless night. We offered thanks to the light and to Aeolus, Keeper of the Winds, for the grand breeze that held. It seemed a momentous ending: Near here, in a hut, Odysseurs, the king of Ithaca, met his son to plot his return to the throne and his faithful Penelope.

Enriched by adventures in Athens and Turkey, we returned to Scud and set off under power to transit the Corinth Canal, a narrow waterway four miles in length that’s cut through the Isthmus of Corinth and shortens the sea route from the Aegean to the Ionian by as much as 600 miles.

At first light, we tied up at the Corinth port-authority dock to pay transit fees as a foreign yacht. When we entered at low tide, we were in convoy behind a scarlet propane vessel. It made an easy target to follow, for the canal lay blackened in misty shadow with steep, 300-foot rock walls that towered over Scud. When we burst into the Gulf of Corinth, Scud’s spinnaker ballooned in a fresh breeze, and we soared across sparkling-blue waters bound for the isle associated with Odysseus. It was from Ithaca that Homer says Odysseus sailed with his black ships to Troy, returning 20 years later after war and wandering.

To break up our passage, we anchored near the town quay at the tranquil island of Trizonia to swim and walk the beach. At first light, we poked our bows back out into the gulf. Giant twirling turbines along the shore signaled a fresh breeze ahead, and we flew across flat seas in our performance cat toward the Ionian Sea.

Vathi Village remained hidden until we glided deep into a narrow fjord. On our quest for Odysseus along a dragon-back ridge, we befriended a man pruning branches atop an olive tree. When he returned from sea the next day, he offered me fish from his dory.

I awakened the following morning to the sound of a cock’s crow heralding dawn. Peter, eager to set out for Italy, greeted me with morning coffee. Bounding on Scud into the Ionian Sea, we romped beneath a boisterous breeze, sailing like ancient galleys before us, relishing the hurtling white spray filled with glittering rainbows that burst across our bows. As a votive offering and heartfelt memento of our Grecian cruise, I tossed a spring of lavender into the sea. Our escapades would be tucked into our sea chest until we returned next time. There’s always a next time, when dancing among the magical islands of Greece. Efharisto! Thank-you! Herete! Until then!